life were always just the result of something that made sense. If somebody he was close to left him, it was just logical because people go their own way. If somebody did not like him, it was logical because they did not match up in their personality and their pheromone smell did not mix well. If somebody died, it was logical because humans have a limited life span, their functions cease, their life ends. They turn into compost and become part of the cycle again. He acknowledged the fact that there was no higher power in this world, that the world itself was the power. The system was the only thing that existed and it only existed because of the people in it. Everything had its place and purpose, not in a moral but logical sense. Action and reaction, life was nothing but a constant scientific experiment.
And when the day came that he was about to die, he thought about his life. He thought about the things that made him happy, he thought about the things that made him sad. He remembered the women he loved, the people he cheated. The people he helped and the people he didn't even notice.
And when he closed his eyes for the last time and knew that this was also just part of the equation, that it was nothing but a biological reaction that would end his existence he was not sad, just empty.
The Mirror
She had already forgotten how long she had been standing in front of that mirror. But this was important. “There are enough people out there who obsess over trivialities”, she thought. But this, this was something entirely else. All these girls she knew who stared into the mirror because of nothing, because there was a zit somewhere, maybe. Or who had ridiculous thoughts about their hair, breasts, butts, weight, eyebrows or anything like that. They would go on and on about such unimportant things. Who cared if you weighed a little bit too much, if there were some love handles to be found. Oh, how she hated that term. It was sick and wrong to always search for your own faults, little shortcomings or things that you don’t like about yourself. Why always focus on the negative? Why did people waste their time and energy with complaining and thinking about things that shouldn’t really bother them? All the teenage girls trying to look like the stars on TV, buying the magazine and starving themselves for just a little less weight. All the girls thinking about plastic surgery for their lips, boobs, asses, maybe all of it together. Taken from one place and put into the other. All of this seemed not only utterly ridiculous, it was actually more. It was disturbing and in the end probably bad for anyone involved in it. This here was something else entirely. She was not a little overweight, she didn’t have just some love handles (there it was again…). She was an ugly giant of a woman, she was obese beyond any imagination. And she had tried everything already, sports and diets, saunas and enemas, plastic foil and pills. None of it had made any difference. She was just the blob. Years ago she had already given up hope to ever be normal, to ever be thin and attractive. Yet she still endured the same procedure every single day of her life, most days several times. She would get out an old shirt of hers and put it on in front of the huge mirror in her room. And then look at it, how she filled it out, how it was nearly exploding, how it was unable to keep back her belly, how it made her breasts appear like the flabby pieces of fat they were. How none of it fit into it. And this shirt was only a couple of years still pretty presentable. What had happened to her, how could she have gained so much weight, what did she do to deserve these enormous proportions. It disgusted her to look at herself, yet it was like watching a deadly car crash: one could simply not look away. With morbid fascination she scrutinized every inch of her body, searching for more of the terrible flaws that others didn’t have to suffer from. She put away the shirt and started again to look at her body. Now naked, she realized that her belly was way too big, it was not like the flat piece it should be, but it looked more like she was pregnant, somewhere under the million layers of fat. She turned around and inspected her back, it didn’t look much better. She grabbed at her shoulder and could hold the skin and flesh between her fingers. She moved it between them. It almost made her puke. Underneath her back she didn’t even dare to look at her saggy ass, hanging down there, being of monstrous size. It just hung there, moving on its own she felt, making her nothing but an enormous clown. A caricature of a woman. What are you supposed to do? She watched everything she ate, she counted calories, she went running after each meal, she drank gallons of water. A while ago she was fed up with how all of this was evolving, so she came up with the idea to keep book on her meals and how much of it was left in her body. The fat had to come from somewhere, there had to be a reason why she was like a hot air balloon. Calorie counting had proven to be useless and in fact it was probably just a lie by the big companies anyway, to trick people into eating unhealthy, fatty food. So she came up with a much better method of checking her nutrition. That was when she found out that something was wrong with her. It took her years to see it, but just after a couple of days of keeping record she had the undisputable evidence. Her body was not right, it didn’t function properly. Nature had cheated her, it had given her a broken body that instead of using up the food inserted into it, just grew and grew. Her body was like cancer, it couldn’t be stopped, not contained not even speaking of healed. How could you otherwise explain the discrepancies she found? Not once, not twice, but every single day. She weighed every last piece of her food, every drop of water she drank. All of it. On a very, very precise scale in her kitchen. The result was always the exact same one. When she weighed what came out again, on an equally exact scale in her bathroom, it was always less. Not by much, but it never was the same. So her body was against her, it was playing tricks on her. It just kept a tiny portion of everything for itself to grow. It might not have been much, but it was enough. Every day it did that, think about all the years she had been eating and drinking, it was no wonder she was grotesque like that. Why did the world treat her that unfairly? How can it be that you are cursed with a heinous, treacherous and evidently broken body like that? Others lived happily for 80 years and never had issues with their body, she just turned fourteen and was already a fat wreck. For the fifth time that day, she lifted her enormous body on the scale. Nothing had changed, still the same. She would never be perfect, never be at least acceptable. The scale was proof enough, all her trying, all her fighting, all her discipline, it was for nothing. She still weighed almost 75 pounds.
AFTERNOON
For a yardful of ****
There they stand, two men in the glistening sun. They are ready for a duel, with long steps they approach each other. Two men in their forties, willing to do what it takes. I can hear Morricone's tunes playing along with it. The tension hangs so thick in the air that it is hard to breathe. They walk up to each other and meet in the middle, just a handful of steps from each other, far away one imagines to hear a coyote singing his lonesome and woeful song. They are surrounded by what was once living meat but now is nothing more than compost. The graves of many are flagged with little metal wires to which red ribbons are attached, the two men stand in a sea of red flags, waving in the summer's hot breeze. Their eyes filled with determination and blood lust, so they meet on this memorable day in August.
Well, one has to explain the circumstances, why in a suburb of an ordinary town in Germany two men are about to duel. It is a matter of life and death and one of the combatants is my own father. The bravest man there is, all day long this memorable Sunday his family was by his side and briefed him for the confrontation, sometimes openly asking if it is worth it. But a man has to stand by his word. And so they face, both of them bound to meet by fate, not challenging their destiny but accepting it. High noon, it is time. The place for the duel is our front yard, covered in said flags. The men will battle it out, they are ready. Right before the duel I can see my father's right hand, it is shaking, he is nervous, but does he back down? Hell no.
The red flags wave gently in the wind, as if they did not know that they are the reason why these two dare devils have to face. They act innocent, claiming to not know that they will alter two families' lives. They look harmless, but they smell. They send their little venomous stench out into the warm summer air. Poo, dog poo, our dog's poo, there it sits and waits patiently for an unsuspecting foot.
And so they meet, my father and the neighbor, hero and villain.
Like ballerinas they curve around the ferocious mines that cover the yard.
In the setting sun - yes it took them that long - they face each other and the duel is faster than our eyes and ears can follow